


The Drawing Room

by YourGhost



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: A Sad Handjob, Anal Sex, Anxiety Disorder, Blood and Gore, Choking, Homophobic Language, M/M, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Rape, Self-Harm, Suicide, degradation kink, really lowkey daddy kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-18 12:11:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18699355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YourGhost/pseuds/YourGhost
Summary: Is there really a fate worse than death?In a place where nobody can ever die, Dwight Fairfield has somehow managed to keep feeling fear. It’s getting to be a problem. Luckily, there's something lurking in the woods that can prove that Dwight's afraid of all the wrong things.





	The Drawing Room

**Author's Note:**

> Please mind the tags.  
> I do not condone anything presented in this work.
> 
> I experimented with a couple things here so hopefully nothing's too awkward...

What makes up a man? A miserable sack of bones? The resultant orgasm of a billion chemical reactions? Not that it particularly matters, seeing as it’s not an important distinction in the long-run, but it’s a distinction that a man can not help but make before he dies.

They say people ‘see the light’ when they have a near-death experience. Would could this actually mean? Nobody quite knows. Whatever is actually happening to these people, whether it be a strange interaction with God herself or a mysterious explosion occurring deep in their brains, people always seem to come away from it with a newfound truth. Maybe this revelation will drive them towards excellence or maybe it will drive them to insanity. The fucky thing about that, though, is… What happens if your entire life is nothing but that moment on repeat? What can you do if you’re blinded by that light?

“Here, Dwight.” Nea passes a shard of glass over to him. It’s the same kind of thing they’d jab into the killer’s shoulder for another chance at life. This time, though, it holds none of the hopeful sentiment.

His fingers feel numb as globs of other people’s blood drip down onto his hand. They’re all looking at him, expecting him to add to the coagulating mess. Dwight tries to take a deep breath, count his numbers, visualize how it’d go, imagine the pain, but nothing helps. His throat closes and he’s suffocating on nothing. They’ve been through thousands of trials, stepped in a thousand bear-traps, and he can’t even do this. Day in and day out, it’s the same shit. He never changes. He’s never been able to change a damn thing.

The blade slips from his hand and falls into the ashy dirt. Groans of disappointment fill the air as Dwight stands up from his seat. The wind gusts a few embers from the fire onto his clothes, and not even the illusion of warmth can keep him grounded. He doesn’t look at the others as he runs off into the woods because he knows that they’re all mad at him. Meeting their eyes would shatter him like glass.

Walking through the tall trees that surround the campfire is a weirdly bittersweet experience. It’s comforting to feel like you’re running away from it all, and yet you know you’ll only ever end up back at where you began. The only bird call he ever hears is the rhythmic cawing of crows. They all fly away as soon as he tries to follow their sound, though.

He’s breathing so fast and the inability to still his chest only serves to exaggerate the symptoms. He knows the tingling in his arms won’t kill him, that his racing heart is just a sign of something wrong in his head rather than his body, but he doesn’t know how to fucking stop it. There’s not a lot of ways to numb yourself in the Entity’s realm. There’s no alcohol to help you disappear and there’s no therapists to guide you through to the ever-moving light at the end of the tunnel.

Trials hardly even make him feel anything. If they all hadn’t discarded their fear long ago, they would’ve all gone crazy by now. The killers stopped being scary as soon as they accepted their cruel lot in life. After all, the worst thing the killers can do is inflict temporary pain. The Entity won’t let them talk or fuck around or anything. It’s all so sterile in the weirdest way possible. That mid-match adrenaline chasing is the only thing that keeps the others going in the end, but Dwight’s never felt good about reveling in his own spilt blood.

Like they say, time heals any wound. The invisible hands around Dwight’s neck start to loosen their grip. He doesn’t want to open his eyes yet because all the built up tears would spill out and that would be too pathetic. Sitting all alone in the woods, crying to himself. How lame would that be? Just once, he wished someone would come running after him so that they could have a picturesque movie scene where he learns he’s loved and that everything’s okay. All his problems would magically go away just like that, but none of that is realistic.

Instead of a Family Channel found-family movie trope, they’ve become a band of maladjusted weirdos who slash their wrists for fun. While you might consider that to be sad or morbid (and it really is), you can find comfort in the fact that small stuff like that is rather mundane compared to what some of the less sane survivors do. Fun activities the others partake in include: climbing and subsequently jumping off trees, setting themselves on fire, beating the shit out of each other, so forth. David is particularly fond of that last one. Old habits die hard, I suppose.

Dwight doesn’t do any of that stuff. Not even the baby-hour shit, like running glass over your skin to feel the sting of oxygen. Honestly? It’s not an aversion to the sensation or anything. It’s just that he’s afraid of doing it. He’s yet to determine what part of it he’s actually afraid of, the method or the motive, but he’s scared nonetheless.

You’d think that they would all stick together as one big strong group, but when you bring a bunch of misfits together, all you end up with is a series of fractured cliques filled with fucked-up friends. Dwight has somehow managed the depressing feat of simultaneously being part of every group while also being a stranger to everyone around him.

“Show, don’t tell!” You scream at me. You probably didn’t do that but let’s say you did so I can explain myself. I’m specifically telling you this because Dwight, our main character, is not currently socializing with the others in a poignant manner that clearly illustrates his social ineptitude. No, instead he is sitting on a fallen tree and trying not to cry again. Some of the others are off in their trials, and the rest are all hanging out doing God knows what. Dwight is very well aware that his life is like this because of his own personal failings and he’s not sure why he doesn’t do anything about it. There’s nothing stopping him from feeling something. Perhaps he is just a natural born coward. It’s amazing that anyone ever let him pretend that he’s the ‘leader’.

Let’s try thinking positive thoughts, actually. Dwight considers the people that do like him. Claudette’s always nice to him, but she gets along with everyone. Jeff’s super chill and his drawings are cool. It’s always fun to see what he can make with nothing but a forest and a fire. David has actually told him before that he’s down to fuck, in his weird David way. “Oi, you up for a shag, hen?” Or something like that. It took Dwight a solid minute and a whole lot of David wiggling his eyebrows for him to get the message. You can’t quite blame him though, seeing as Dwight’s never actually met a British person before coming to the Entity’s realm. He probably should have taken him up on the offer, in hindsight. It would’ve been nice to feel wanted like that, but he just came up with some bullshit excuse and ran away. Didn’t want to disrupt anything. If things stayed the same, then nothing bad would happen. It was a simple choice at the time; what’s best for the group is best for him.

Charting out the relationships between the other survivors has become a pastime for him. It’s just that he never includes himself in any of it. It wouldn’t even be that hard to fit in. All he has to do is just pretend to be like everyone else and then he can just find love and maybe not hate himself all the time. Sure, he’s made it this far keeping everyone at arm’s length, but it’s just… He’s missing out on something. There’s some big joke that he’s not in on. Nothing ever makes him feel better. He’s considered letting David pound him in the ass, but the thought of it just makes him feel sick. The fear is never worth the rush.

Dwight’s been bouncing his leg for the past hour and his leg is getting sore. Sitting still like this is just breaking his brain, so he gets up and starts off deeper into the woods. He’s going nowhere fast but it feels better to run on a treadmill then accept the reality of the situation. The burning in his lungs occupies his mind much better than any drug ever did back home, and there’s a simple comfort to it in that the trees will always bring him back to the others when he’s ready. It’s only a matter of time before he sees that flickering light.

It’s only a matter of time before he gets back.

Soon.

Where is he? Just keep walking and you’ll find your way out, Dwight. Don’t worry about it. It’s just taking longer than normal. A lot longer.

His breathing is getting faster again. His legs move a little quicker. Should he just turn around and head back the way he came? No, what if this is leading somewhere new? Besides, he doesn’t even know which way is backwards anymore. Everything looks the same and the air is thickening with fog. Like the dark woods weren’t already hard enough to see in already!

There’s a light up ahead. His body’s catching on fire. God, he’s so stupid for letting himself fantasize about getting out. Crushing disappointment is not something he needs at the moment, yet here it is. The sickness in his head feels like a worm tunneling through his brains. It’s tearing him up from inside and ripping apart his cognition. The world’s starting to spin. This isn’t the campfire. It’s a nightmare within a nightmare.

An uncomfortable calm overtakes him. This is just a mean-spirited dream. He’s fine. Maybe he could’ve figured out a way to prove whether it is or not, but Dwight didn’t want to risk waking up if it was.

A metallic clang reverberates through the air, but the trees swallow the sound. It keeps happening every couple seconds. A pleasant rhythm develops. Eventually, Dwight emerges from the thick brush to find himself standing before a small cabin in the woods. A flickering red glow illuminates the outlines of windows and smoke stacks rise from the roof. Something deep down tells him to be afraid, yet an intoxicating thrill drives him forward. The allure of finding something new is too much to resist. Worst case scenario, he ‘dies’, right? Even that would be good. A new way to die is a fun way to die.

The corners of his mouth tug down despite his arguably optimistic thoughts. The nausea that overtakes his body as he gets closer is all too familiar, and he shifts into a mental state reserved only for trials. Dwight gets low to the ground, moving as fast as he can without making noise, and makes his way over to the walls of the cabin. The metallic shrieks keep going, leading Dwight to assume that he’s free to sneak around for the time being. But wait, what if there’s multiple people here? Realistically, if someone’s there, they’re a killer. They’re pretty solitary, though… The morbid curiosity convinces him to press on despite all the alarms in his head going off.

After hoisting himself through an open window, Dwight finds himself standing in what looks like an incredibly decrepit den. Heaps of broken furniture populate the room. The only other decorations are blood stains and rotting viscera. Evidently, whatever was dragged in here never made it out. A ribcage with hunks of black flesh hanging off it sits by the only doorway. Light filters past the bones, alluding to the fire in the next room over. With nowhere else to go, Dwight swallows hard and starts creeping towards the door frame. The old floor boards creek ever so slightly under his weight.

Clang, clang, clang.

The Trapper himself is standing in front of a fire with a hunk of heated metal resting on an anvil. He keeps hitting it with his hammer to some end. Whatever he’s doing, it has to have something to do with the litany of traps surrounding him. There’s subtle differences among the many iterations, likely as a result of private experiments. Maybe the trials are nothing but a testing ground for him. Also of the note is the carcass of pig leaning against the wall with a machete sticking out of its belly. A disturbing piece of foreshadowing, perhaps? Hopefully not. The very idea of his lifeless body rotting in this place fills him with an existential dread.

The fear of getting spotted gets too much for Dwight, so he crawls back out of sight before anything bad can happen. His hand slides over his mouth to silence his intense breathing. Where’d that courage from a few moments prior go? Well, first off, the trials are different. He knows what to expect there, so it’s easy to act like he knows what to do. Just once, he wanted to translate some of that strength into something else in his life, but like always he’s just a fucking loser. All he can do to keep himself from repeating his earlier break-down is bite down on his tongue until his teeth draw blood.

A quiet consumes the air and the sound of the Trapper’s heavy breathing starts getting closer. Hide. No time to run without getting chased. There has to be somewhere he can hide. Wait, no, jump out the window-- fuck it’s on the other side of the room and the Trapper’s feet are falling on the squeaky floorboards. Hide hide hide. The only place he can think of is the broken bed next to him, so Dwight slides his body underneath the wooden frame and hopes the ambient darkness conceals him well enough.

A few seconds later, the Trapper stomps in and pauses by the door. Dwight has just given up on actually breathing at this point, by the way. He already accepted the fact that he’s gonna get caught and he’s going to die through whatever means possible in this mysterious Entity-generated cabin. Wait, no-- think positive thoughts. Maybe this serial killer wants to chat! It must get real lonely out here, with nobody to talk to. Fuck, no, that’s not happening. Dwight wouldn’t want to even if he could. All of his doom-filled expectations are subverted, however, when the Trapper just kicks off his boots and starts sliding off his tattered overalls. There is nothing underneath said overalls. Man, the Trapper looks a lot more fit with his clothes on.

Not that Dwight’s judging or anything, but… Sometimes you just can’t help but think about stuff like that at terrible times. He bites down on his thumb to keep himself from making any sounds as the Trapper lowers himself down onto a nearby stool, his semi-erect dick throbbing in his hand. The guy starts stroking himself and he moans with what sounds like painful pleasure. Why the hell does it sound like it hurts?

Ugh, this is so fucked up! Really, he’s more disgusted than afraid at this point. Still pretty afraid, obviously, but this was really not something Dwight needed to see.

Dwight shifts his leg when it starts to fall asleep, but in the process of moving his foot, his shoe collides with a hunk of junk. The piece of metal clatters against the floorboards in the most irritating way possible. His heart stops. Why? God, why? The Trapper stops his jack-off session abruptly, presumably startled by the novel phenomenon. He rises from his seat, walks ever so slowly to the corner of the room, and stops right in front of the collapsed furniture. A hand lowers down in front of Dwight’s face.

The words fall from his mouth before he can stop himself. “I’m sorry--”

Dwight’s ripped out from under the bed at a spine-shattering speed. His face drags across the splintered floor as the Trapper’s other hand wraps around his throat and hoists him off the ground. It’s impossible to breath with the Trapper’s vice-grip constricting his windpipe, but before Dwight claws for freedom, the killer loosens his fingers ever so slightly. Just enough to let a tiny bit of air through.

The Trapper stares, utterly transfixed, with his mouth opening ever so slightly. His dull eyes peer through the shadows of his mask. Normally, Dwight would already be skewered on a basement hook, but they’re not in a trial. The Entity’s influence isn’t strong enough here to compel the man into murdering him just yet. Waiting for his death sentence is almost more unbearable than getting sacrificed, though. It gets to the point where Dwight’s kicking and scratching, desperate to break away, but the Trapper is completely unmoving. The gears are almost audibly turning in the giant man’s head.

“You.” He growls out a single syllable, then Dwight hits the floor hard. The fall is dizzying and his confusion is only compounded by the fact that he just heard a killer directly address him for the first time ever. He knows he should just pick himself up and make a break for it, but the opportunity to actually talk to a killer is too compelling. “W-what are you gonna-- Are you gonna kill me?”

Nothing more is said. Instead, The Trapper answers that question by grabbing Dwight by the shoulder, flipping him around, and throwing him against the wall. One hand presses Dwight’s skull down as the other works its way under Dwight’s belt. The leather burns his skin as the Trapper forces his belt down off his hips without even undoing the buckle. A blood-curdling moan fills Dwight’s ears before his clothes are torn off by impossibly strong arms.

He barely has time to register what’s happening by the time he feels the warmth of the Trapper on him. The curve of the man’s stomach presses into his spine as a raging boner grinds against his bare ass. Slicks of precum coat his lower back and he can’t do anything about it. The Trapper has him pinned by the wrists. There’s no way he could overpower a killer as big as this one. At this point, Dwight’s just in shock, really. The only thing he can focus on is the gasping behind him as the Trapper works his erection into Dwight’s ass.

The Trapper’s giant cock thrusts into his unlubricated asshole, causing tears to well up in Dwight’s eyes almost immediately. The lining of his guts warm up with pain as the shrapnel embedded in the Trapper’s dick shreds his ass. All he manages to do while the Trapper fucks him is cry out in anguish. A hand strays from Dwight’s wrist and grabs onto his matted hair, shoving his face into the wall much harder than before. It doesn’t take much more after that before a flood of bodily fluids rushes into Dwight. The Trapper lets out a deep groan as he pulls his sopping cock out.

Dwight falls to the floor again once the Trapper lets go. His whole body is shaking and he can’t stop. The shock has worn off. He’s sobbing into the pile of torn clothes beneath him. The only thing he can be glad about is that it’s over. Bloody and violated, Dwight puts his everything into pushing himself up, but just as he gets onto his knees, the Trapper grabs onto him again.

This time, he’s thrown onto his back in the middle of his room. This is the moment where you, the reader, feel an intense pity, for Dwight has realized that the fun is very far from over. This is, after all, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. The Trapper would be stupid to not take advantage of it. He must be so lonely out here. The warmth of another-- he needs it so bad. Dwight wouldn’t have said yes if he had asked. He needs it so bad. Hearing no wouldn’t have been good for anyone involved.

“I like to watch you.” The Trapper whispers into Dwight’s ear as he bears down on top of him. “In the trials.” His hands are running down Dwight’s shivering body, fingers following every curve and scar. “I like how you scream.”

The weight of the Trapper’s body on top of him crushes out any air in his lungs and keeps any more from getting in. Not like he would have had time to breath anyway, since the Trapper leans his face in and sticks his tongue into Dwight’s throat. His blood-stained mask presses into the side of Dwight’s face as he has his way with the boy’s mouth. After tasting Dwight’s saliva enough, though, the Trapper pushes himself up off of Dwight and siddles up until his stiff erection is resting on Dwight’s chin. The head of his cock slides forward as the Trapper forces Dwight’s mouth open.

The Trapper’s sweaty body overwhelms all of Dwight’s senses: the blood-soaked musk clogs his nostrils, the sight of the heaving body on top of him blinds him, the sound of excited growling deafens him, the taste of cum twists his tongue, the sensation of the Trapper’s dick literally stabbing the back of his throat burns him. He chokes and gags as the sharp edges of the Trapper’s fucked-up cock threatens to tear apart his esophagus, but instead of dying from a ruptured airway, he drowns in a tidal wave of cum.

He can’t force himself to swallow all of the semen, so it spills from his lips and pools on his neck. Dwight’s not sure if this round was better or worse than the last, but there’s no point to quantifying the things that are happening to him. Instead, he focuses on the sharp pain coursing through his body. It’s comforting. Grounding, almost. Oh, don’t mistake that with pleasure, though. He’s twisting inside out under the pressure of an intolerable amount of sensations, but focusing on the fiery blood leaking down his throat keeps him from breaking apart. It’s not so bad.

An eternity passes before the Trapper recovers from his second orgasm. He stumbles to his feet and wraps his arms under Dwight’s still body. “Come here, you little fag…”

Dwight feels like he’s flying as the Trapper carries him off into the other room. Everything is blurry, too. His glasses disappeared somewhere in the heat of the moment. It’s better that way, though. He’d much rather not have to see the perfectly disturbing details of his assailant’s face.

An explosion of ice scratches at his bare back as he’s thrown on top of the anvil, shocking a bit of life into him. Dwight arches his back up to pull away from the pain as he yelps out helplessly. Instinctively, he tries to crawl towards the warmth of the fire, but the Trapper holds him down with a heavy hand on his chest.

“I’ve been waiting to try this out.” His voice is so deep that it rattles around in Dwight’s skull and wraps around his mind. Dwight just stares up at the dark ceiling haunting him as the Trapper rummages through the ocean of metalwork. “Amanda helped me. You’ll like it, queer boy.” Dwight really, really wishes that the Trapper would go back to not talking. The gravelly drawl makes him want to rip off his own skin.

A series of metal rings wrap around his face as the Trapper forces his contraption onto Dwight. The survivor in him puts up a tiny bit of a fight, just so he could say he tried, but it’s effectively pointless as the Trapper easily tears his weak hands away. With the click of a lock ensuring Dwight’s fate, the Trapper steps back to admire his newest advance in bear-trap technology. The weight of it feels all too familiar, and the ticking that starts only confirms Dwight’s fear. Death lurches closer and closer with every passing second. The looming threat of a bear-trap skewering his brain sends a surge of adrenaline through him and then he’s writhing and screaming. The Trapper just holds him down until he’s still.

“How do I get it off?!” Dwight screams out, clawing at his face in desperation. In the trials they had all those Jigsaw boxes and there were rules about when it went off, but what the fuck was going on with this modded version?!

“I have the key here.” He holds out a small piece of metal. The light of the fire just barely glints off of it.

It takes all of Dwight’s self-control to stop his arms from shooting out to try and wrestle the key from the killer’s grasp. “What do I have to do? What do I have to do?!”

The Trapper’s mouth turns up into a shit-eating smirk. His teeth are stained a sickly yellow. “You gotta beg like the fag you are. Tell me you want my cock. I know you do.”

You’ve gotta be fucking kidding.

In the time it takes for Dwight to recover from the shock of the situation, the Trapper drags him off the metal table and dumps him down at his feet. The particles of metal covering the floor cuts Dwight’s knees and palms as he looks up at the man towering above him. Running his eyes over the massive body before him, all Dwight sees are thick muscular legs leading the way to a hefty torso with a gut, huge arms that could tear him limb from limb, calloused hands, nerve endings that don’t even register pain anymore, a terrifying grin alluding to the psychopath behind the mask… In that moment, fear fills every part of Dwight’s body, and he loses all shame and dignity. He has officially become a broken man, reduced to nothing more than a fucked up sex slave.

“P-please, I need it. Please… ” God, what the fuck is he even saying? At least he could still say he had stayed sane before, but now… Now, nothing even feels real. The anxiety he felt earlier is replaced by a dull pain. A strange, meaningless pain that’s eating away at the synapses in his brain. A wildfire is burning down all the trees in his mind so that new seeds can propagate in their place. It would have been nice if something less disgusting would replace his fucked-up self, though.

The Trapper’s fingers dig into the short mess of Dwight’s hair to pull him close. He drags Dwight’s face across his semi-stiff shaft and buries his nose into his dirty crotch. Suffocating on the Trapper’s balls, the only thing that Dwight can even think about is the overwhelming strench hitting him like mustard gas. Tears pour from his eyes as the rough pubic hairs scratch at his face. “Fucking beg.”

“I need it so bad! Fuck me like the faggot I am. I’m a filthy whore and I need you in me…” Dwight manages to pull himself away just enough to say his empty lines. Not that he gets much fresh air, though, as the Trapper forces him to be nauseatingly close to his blood-stained member. “I want your cock! Cum in me, please!”

“You want more of daddy’s cock, huh? Didn’t get enough last time?” There’s a note of satisfaction in his tone that sends a pang of hope into Dwight. Or maybe he’s actually happy to please the Trapper at this point.

“Y-yes, daddy, please. Fuck me more.” Dwight wraps his weak hands around the heat pressing against his face. The throbbing sensation is far from inviting but the precum leaking onto his fingers says it all. This is all so damn fake, and yet, getting lost in the Trapper’s fantasy is so much easier than staying in reality. Cortisol clogs his veins like it’s alcohol burning his brain. It’s so easy to just go along with it.

The Trapper conjures the key from somewhere and dangles it delicately from his fingers. “Since you asked so nicely…” He fiddles with the ticking time bomb strapped to Dwight’s head, undoing a series locks and chains, until it falls away. The sudden loss of weight launches Dwight into orbit, but it’s a short-lived voyage before he’s sent crashing back down to Earth.

Dwight’s thrown down again, though this time he’s flipped around so he’s on his knees. Instead of just sticking his cock in again, the Trapper jams his fingers into Dwight’s tight ass and rubs the mixture of cum and blood around like the world’s worst lube. Pain doesn’t debilitate his body like last time, but the way the Trapper’s nails dig into his sensitive flesh drags Dwight straight to hell. He’s on fire and his strangled moans do nothing but encourage the Trapper more.

It feels like hours before the Trapper rips his hand out of Dwight’s ass, and when those fingers slide out, it feels like all of his intestines are dragged out with them. He collapses onto the floor, the metal debris lacerating his exposed skin. His lungs struggle for a single breath, but he can’t even manage a single gasp before the Trapper grabs him by his throat and bends him backwards. The killer’s mask slides off as he wraps his mouth around Dwight’s neck. Blood blossoms out as his canines rip open two long lines across the delicate skin. His tongue sucks the crimson liquid off with a beastly thirst. At the same time, the Trapper begins to work his cock back into Dwight’s ass again. A hurricane is contained entirely within his nervous system.

Once the Trapper’s done licking his lips, he moves back in and sinks his teeth into the side of Dwight’s neck until the pain’s too much to bear and Dwight lets out a scream. The Trapper almost takes the flesh with him as he withdraws. Instead of ripping off a chunk of neck, he leaves a dozen puncture wounds gushing blood. Dwight’s hand flies to his neck to try to stop the bleeding, but all he manages to do is cover his arm in his own blood.

The intense thrusting throws Dwight’s body back and forth, but before the Trapper cums again, he reaches his arm around and starts jerking off Dwight’s nearly flacid dick. A perverted ecstasy fills Dwight as he quickly reaches a climax, a pathetic orgasm shaking him as the Trapper finishes off at the same time. It’s impossible to differentiate the pain and the pleasure; it all blends into a total sensory overload.

The Trapper laughs as he stands back up. Something deep down inside of Dwight snaps at the sound. As blood fills the gaps between his fingers, the world starts spinning. The pain feels so real, so new. It’s nothing like what he felt in any trial. It’s nothing like anything before.

In the brief moment of freedom he gets while the Trapper steps away to look for another toy, Dwight summons literally all of the strength remaining in his disgusting broken body to drag himself off the ground. Vertigo topples him before he can get anywhere and a rush of vomit fills his throat. It seeps out silently, spilling out onto the floor, as he crawls over to the pig carcass sitting against the wall. His fingers wrap around the handle of the rusty machete. The Trapper turns around and barks something intelligible. He’s lunging forward to stop Dwight, but he’s too late.

Blood drips down from his open mouth as the blade finds its way through his guts. A disgusting gurgling sound comes from his throat as he stumbles back, the machete grinding further into his viscera. The Trapper doesn’t catch him as he falls. No, he just stares as his God-given gift twitches on the ground. Some stupid part of Dwight wishes that he could see the Trapper with tears in his eyes, sad that what happened had happened, but no. His face is completely still. The same stern expression stares down at him. Maybe just a little bit more disappointed than usual. He’s so cold. The world is so cold.

Dwight giggles to himself. He must be really far gone to find any of this funny. It hurts like hell, but luckily his limbs are already going numb. Everything’s freezing over again. Snow is piling on his icy corpse. It shouldn’t feel this good to die. He never felt like this before. When he was getting hunted down in the trials, when he was getting his tendons torn apart with knives… Nothing ever felt this good. It’s a little scary. Just a bit, though.

The dark embrace of the Entity’s ether is a welcome one. It always is. All the pain melts away and all of the sudden he’s becoming human again. Or, at least, he’s becoming an imitation of what a human might be. He never feels right in his new skin but it’s not like he gets a choice in the matter.

The euphoria of having an empty mind blesses him ever so briefly before the black fog slips away from him. A boiling bile builds in his throat and threatens to burn away all his insides, but, like always, Dwight just swallows it back down.

He opens his eyes and tries to ignore the nausea. The others are staring at him as he lays in the dirt.

“You just finish a trial or something?” Nea asks, though she doesn’t seem anywhere near as concerned as her question makes her out to be. She’s flipping that blade of glass between her fingers. The thin streaks of blood on her arm have been dry for a while.

Dwight’s honestly not sure how to respond. A cocktail of drugs is blocking out all the feeling in his body. It’s all still there, but he just can’t feel it. The Entity does a good job of keeping people going. Or maybe the Entity didn’t do anything at all? Maybe… Maybe he’s just broken now. Dwight decides to just lie. “Oh, yeah, uh, bad start-- I got caught right off the bat. Got face-camped and everything.”

“Who else was in there with you? I don’t see some of the others around.” She looks around at the rest of the group to emphasize her point. The same people from before are sitting around the fire, leaving a good portion of the survivor clan unaccounted for.

“I, uh… I don’t really remember. I didn’t really get a chance to take note.”

“Heh, that bad?” Nea stretches her legs out in front of her and laughs to herself. “Don’t sweat it, nerd. Sometimes you just get fucked up the ass like that.”

That’s a bit on the nose. Dwight doesn’t mind though, because he’s busy staring into the distance. There’s nothing there, past all those trees, and Dwight would prefer it stay that way. A warm gust runs past them. “Could you pass that over here?”

Nea raises an eyebrow. The glass glints in the fire’s light. “This?”

“Yeah. That.”

“Oh, so you finally got the guts to join the cool kids? Nice.” She grins and tosses it over. It flies through the air nice and easily.

Without really thinking, Dwight digs it into the skin of his forearm, starting just below his watch and dragging it up to the crook of his elbow. It takes a few moment for the gravity of the wound to catch up with him, and when it does, his heart starts to throb. Blood leaks out slowly but surely until the side of his arm is painted red. The others watch with their eyebrows up.

It hurts like a bitch after the high wears off, but the way his hands tremble with delight tells him that there’s nothing else he’d rather be doing than becoming his own killer.


End file.
